The church is a rehab center for the human soul. It’s a place for the over-righteous to stop pretending and the under-righteous to start partaking. It’s level ground, leveled by the wind and waves of sovereign grace. With good news like this as a starting point, we who are the broken can be made whole, understanding that the disclosure of our brokenness always precedes the flood of divine mercy which makes us well. Let’s face it, our failure to confess our brokenness and drink indulgently at the fountain of grace leaves us with our backs to the cross of Jesus. This is a perilous place to be. For as Jesus said to Paul, “My power works best in your weakness” (2 Cor. 12:9 NLT).

About six years ago I sat on the edge of my seat as I listened to an aged pastor tell the remarkable story of his experience leading a church in the city. In vivid detail he described each phase of the church’s fifty-year journey, remembering like it was yesterday each daring, faith-filled step of this small, yet courageous congregation. Throughout his hour-long presentation there was one concept that emerged over and over again, one virtue that seemed to mark every movement of their half-century of urban ministry. It was SACRIFICE.

The church and pastor I’m describing are unusual in many respects. Most pastors move on after three years. Most churches grow inward and self-absorbed after fifty. So this story is not the norm. But it’s true, and that’s what makes it so captivating. True stories stick with us. They’re hard to forget, and even harder to ignore.

Later that evening, at the conclusion of this 90-year-old pastor’s presentation, the moderator opened up the floor for questions. This was the audience’s opportunity to speak. I sat there wondering what they might say and how he might respond. Midway through the Q & A someone commented on the church’s exceptional faith and vision. The wise pastor said that they didn’t know any better; they were just following the biblical pattern. Then after a long silence, in which he seemed to replay each chapter of the church’s story in his mind, he said something I’ll never forget. He said, “With every ministry that was started, every property that was purchased, every ‘risk’ that was taken, if we didn’t do it when we did it, we wouldn’t have done it.” In other words, if they waited until everything was just right and they had “all their ducks in a row,” the moment would have passed and they would have squandered an opportunity to experience God’s faithfulness and provision.

I love this prayer given to us by Oscar Romero (1917-1980). I return to it often when I need to be reminded of Who’s in control:

It helps, now and then, to step back and take the long view. The Kingdom of Heaven is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work. Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness. No program accomplishes the Church’s mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one day will grow, we water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We lay foundations that will need further development. We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.

We are the workers, not master builders, ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.

May that future be filled with grace, peace and hope.

Amen.

Today I was rummaging through some old notes — trying to de-clutter my extraordinarily cluttered office — and found these five questions written down on a piece of scrap paper. I think it was Scot McKnight who was the first to share these questions with me. And Scot may have been borrowing from Dan Kimball’s ideas in They Like Jesus but Not the Church. What strikes me about these five questions is just how relevant they are, especially as I learn to pastor (shepherd) people electronically. I’ve been asked all but one of these questions via Facebook. And my answers usually feel clumsy and inadequate.

1. How did we get the Bible and why are there some offensive stories in it?
2. If evolution is not true, why did God create a world that looks like it evolved?
3. Why are so many Christians mean and so many non-Christians loving?
4. How can a good God send Afghan kids to hell if they haven’t had a chance to hear the gospel?
5. Why does my church get so uptight about my lesbian friend who loves Jesus?

These are tough questions, big questions. And how we answer them has never been more important. “I’m not sure.” just won’t suffice.

These days it seems that anything can become fodder for “feeding the sheep,” and Embracing Grace is no exception. It’s full of fodder, a wellspring of new material not often discussed in most Christian churches. Scattered throughout Scot McKnight’s gospel manifesto are words like “eikon” and “kingdom” and “perichoresis.” He even locates the gospel’s origins in the first three chapters of Genesis, a seemingly edgy move for an evangelical theologian.

But beyond the technical jargon and well-crafted definitions, all of which are necessary, there’s a rare, rhythmic pulse that pervades this book, an ancient beat that doesn’t usually accompany today’s most popular Christian literature. It’s a catchy tune too, like one of those radio jingles that you can’t get out of your head. I had almost forgotten that the gospel is supposed to have this kind of unforgettable impact on me, on us.

After reading Embracing Grace, it’s hard for me to recall the last time the gospel looked so big, so beautiful, so extraordinarily relevant to our times. Which leaves me asking myself the question, “How can I do what I do without a redemptive vision as large as, well, the gospel itself?”

Without question, Eugene Peterson is my favorite living spiritual writer. He is as firmly grounded in the biblical narrative as anyone I’ve ever read. And he — perhaps more than any other author, living or dead — has repeatedly emboldened me to think in new ways about virtually everything. He is certainly one of the mediators I employ as I seek to be faithful to the way of Jesus. Without hesitation, I ardently recommend him to you.

If you have not read Eugene Peterson before, you are about to enter unfamiliar territory. So read him slowly. He sounds nothing like the TV preachers that spend millions of dollars propagating a freakishly deformed gospel. And with the possible exception of The Message, I doubt if his books are on the endcaps at your local Christian bookstore. In fact, I doubt very much if he regards the word “Christian” as an adjective at all.

One of his latest books, The Jesus Way: A Conversation on the Ways That Jesus Is the Way, may be his best yet. I’m re-reading it now. It’s stunning. And I know you think I’m exaggerating for effect. But I’m not. The Jesus Way is great literature, and it is probably best to digest it in the company of friends, spiritual companions with whom you can share your most unsettling discoveries.